Windstorm
by Mertlewertle
Summary: While a violent snowstorm rages outside, a distraught Hook comes to Emma to seek solace for his out-of-character behavior brought on by a curse disguised as a gift. One-shot. SPOILER ALERT (based off of S4 spoilers) Rated M for sexuality and some strong language.


*****SPOILER ALERT!*** **so this fic was based off of multiple spoilers I came across from season 4 but I expanded off of those using my own imagination so most of this isn't entirely factual.

_Disclaimer:_ _Once Upon A Time belongs to ABC and sadly I don't own these spoilers or the show so bye. _

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**Chapter One**

Emma kicks the comforter off her body, shivering as another hot flash races under her skin. Shuddering, she sits up, peels her tank top from her stomach, lifts it over her shoulders and tosses it across the room, her naked breasts bouncing around uncomfortably as she falls back onto the mattress. She tries to breathe steadily, living out the remainder of the hot flash as it begins to subside.

The room goes quiet again, the only sound being the distant one of the windstorm outside. The curtains shrouding the windows glow a fluorescent white from the bright snow being whipped around on the other side of the glass. Emma stares up at the dark ceiling, her mangled body still relishing the aftermath of the hot flash. Which reminds her: she needs to take her temperature.

Her sight goes fuzzy for a few moments after she stands out of bed too rapidly. She grips her head, squinting and steadying her stance as she tries to regain consciousness. The blue darkness appears again, the white light from the window reaching across the floor to guide her steps. Emma kicks the bedroom door open, glancing at the bold, red numbers on the clock as she strides by it.

5:42. It _should _be almost dawn by now at this time of year. But with this goddamn snowstorm, all of Storybrooke has been turned upside-down. And now she's got this ridiculous cold, which the majority of the town now has thanks to this abrupt winter. And she was recommended - more like coerced - to stay in bed all day, in case it's the flu or even pneumonia. And thanks to this mild sickness she isn't going to be able to run around and find the culprit.

Raking her fingers through her tangled blonde waves, Emma stops in the kitchen, takes down the plastic bucket of medical supplies atop the cabinet. She attempts to quietly dig through it, not wanting to wake up Henry and have him discover her wandering the apartment topless. Not to mention he was the main coercer for having her stay in bed all day. Well, Mary Margaret and David were pretty strict about it too. Killian especially, though.

She stops digging through the bucket. Listens. She could have sworn she heard movement. Pushing the bucket aside, she jerks her head towards the dark corner of the apartment, where the couch and TV are, where she heard the soft sound. It sounded almost metallic. Straining her eyes, she tries to pierce the shadows to make out any sort of unusual shape. Her already shaken up nerves begin to tremble again, her heart hammering against her ribs. She can almost feel her boobs quivering from her heartbeat.

Emma glances towards Henry's bedroom. The door is open, a faded night light still on. And she can see him buried underneath the sheets, his book closed and placed at the foot of his bed. She can feel both relief and panic flood through her, and she starts to quietly walk over to the source of the sound. She stops at the kitchen threshold, debating whether or not she should turn on the light. Maybe she should creep up on whatever's over there. Turning on the light will just show who or what it is, but might provoke it.

_Fuck it, _she mutters to herself. She tiptoes back into the kitchen, feels around for the cabinet containing her gun. She snatches it quietly, and turns the corner, gripping the gun tightly as she raises it. Taking one hand away, she scales the wall beside her, using the minimal light and her fingers to locate the light switch. Finally finds the nub, her elbow locking as she squeezes the gun, fingering the trigger. Her heart races in her ribcage. She slaps the switch, her free arm flying back to the gun nearly faster than the room is illuminated with yellow light from the ceiling.

A dark mop of hair looks up from the couch. Emma recognizes the face immediately. She almost screams, dodging behind the wall. Killian. He's here. He's in her house. And she's topless. And Henry's here. She just had a gun pointed at him. Fuck that, how did he get in?

"Swan?" Emma hears a tired voice mumble after a few moments of silence. She snatches a piece of paper towel, rips it off the roll and slaps it over her bare chest. Securing the makeshift cover-up with both arms, she peers around the corner.

"Killian!" she whispers, glancing back into Henry's room. Still asleep She hurries over to close the door and tiptoes awkwardly out of the kitchen. Killian sees her paper towel wrap, and she expects him to laugh or make a snarky comment, but he just stares at it, no expression on his face. He doesn't get up from the couch. He just tightens his leather jacket around himself.

Emma just gawks at him, her tight nerves gushing with relief. "Did you sleep here?" she murmurs, inching closer to him. "When did you come in?"

He doesn't answer her. Emma knows something is wrong. "Are you okay?"

He tries to smile. It doesn't look forced, but it doesn't look genuine at the same time. "What happened to your shirt?"

She looks down. She tucks her arms tighter over the paper towel, noticing that her nipples show through. Her glance shifts back to him, and he's just staring at her breasts. She wonders if he's really looking at them or if he's looking straight through her.

"Um . . . I, uh, had another hot flash. It gets pretty uncomfortable at night."

He looks up at her face, concerned now. "Are you getting worse?" He stands up and Emma suddenly feels a little self-conscious, even with him there.

She nods. He looks relieved, but still sad. "Killian, tell me what's wrong."

He stands still for a few moments. He looks away, looks down again, avoiding her eyes. Emma tilts his jaw with one hand, forcing him to look at her. "Look at me," she whispers.

He's been crying. She can see it in his eyes. There's a redness around them and they are glossy from tears. He kisses her. He leans down and their lips collide. Emma's eyes open wide, confused. She can taste rum on his tongue. She doesn't stop him, though. Even when his hands touch her bare back, her abdomen, her sides, lifting up the corners of the paper towel. She can feels his cold hands touching her breasts underneath the towel, shocking her. She shudders, but he keeps going. The paper towel falls to the ground as he starts to trail his lips down from her mouth. He kisses her neck, and then her collarbone, and then he's claimed her breasts, maneuvering them in his hands while he runs his tongue over them.

She knows he's wanted this for a while, but she doesn't know if she feels quite ready to give it to him, especially when he's like this. He's been drinking, probably too much. And he's upset by something. He's been crying, something she has never seen him do. She's also very sick, but that doesn't fucking matter. This won't mean anything. It will be the kind of sex Emma would have during one night stands: meaningless and uncompassionate. That's not them. That's not their relationship.

Something jolts through Emma, and she pushes him back, her hands flying to cover her breasts while Killian stumbles backwards, surprised and confused. They stare at each other for a little bit. Emma can feel the areas where he licked her start to dry in the raw air. They stand a few feet apart but it feels like miles. Emma suddenly feels guilty, watching his face drop again, and he starts to pace the room, holding his left wrist.

"I'm . . . sorry, Killian. That was kind of rude." Emma's arms drop to her sides involuntarily, but she doesn't feel like covering up again.

"No, no, it's me," Killian mumbles, turning back to face her. He cracks. It's all very abrupt. His eyes start flooding, and he falls back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.

Emma stands shocked for a moment, watching this confident man breaking in front of her. Then she rushes next to him, cradles his wet face. She looks into his eyes, and she can see a whole new side of him. A side he never wants to reveal to anyone. She's never seen him crack like this. But she can feel him crumbling as if he was an ancient temple, strong and enduring, beautiful and proud, but now destroyed. Falling apart, every block, cement disintegrating into dust.

She looks down at his hands, sees him gripping his left wrist. She can see scratches around the wrist, and they look new. Her heart jumps. "Killian, what have you been trying to do?" she wails, snatching his left hand delicately, inspecting it. She looks up at his face again. He's in so much pain, it's hard for her to bear it. He stops sobbing. The tears halt, and his face turns stoic. Emma feels as if he just transformed into a different person.

He reaches into his jacket and takes out a knife. Emma trips on her heels, covering her mouth, falling backwards. She gapes at the stained knife in his hands, astounded. Her mind buzzes, trying to piece it all together. He's not himself, he's hurt, he's hurt himself. _He's been trying to cut it off. _

"Killian . . ."

He looks at her. Her hand lingers in the air over her mouth, and her eyes are wide and frightened. She sees the pain in his eyes.

"It's made me different, I-I don't know who I am anymore," he whimpers, holding the knife to his left hand. Emma stares at him, praying he won't try it again.

"Killian, don't do it! Please, you're not yourself right now. You don't know what you're doing."

He stands up abruptly. "That's the bloody point! Rumplestiltskin gave me back my hand but it hasn't made me feel like any hole in my heart carved by vengeance was replaced by forgiveness. It's made me more selfish, like how I once was. I came here because I wanted to fuck you so badly, this thing was dragging me here, making me want you but not in a good way, but I had to stop myself. I was going to hurt you. I couldn't do that to you. I could never just let myself hurt you, Swan."

His voice cracks on the last word, on _Swan. _Emma can see the agony returning to his face. She sits pressed against the arm of the couch, clinging to it, her feet planted into the floor, her throat feeling as if it was closing, her eyes stinging. She watches him lift the knife to his wrist again, his nostrils flaring. His breath is sharp and heavy. She can almost hear his heartbeat over the gusts of wind outside.

She reaches up and grabs the knife, standing as she does so. "No, you don't have to do this. There are other ways. Let me help you, Killian."

She pries the knife from his tense fingers and throws it onto the floor. It hits the wooden planks with a sharp, brief pang. The shrill sound rings in Emma's ears, filling the lengthy silence that follows. Emma takes Killian's wrist into her hands. She examines the scars through her welling eyes before looking up into his. The complex emotion she sees in them startles her because she is able to immediately decode it. He is angry, solaced, hurt, sad and thankful all at once. But there is another emotion she detects but can't name or even describe. And it reassures her that she's supposed to be there for him and he's always going to be there for her.

She focuses on his scars, holds a hand over them, closes her eyes, focusing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she gathers her power in her mind, letting it out from her fingertips in a white flash. And she opens her eyes. Killian is crying and his scars are gone. Emma soothes his hand while she cups his face, stroking the stubble along his jawline.

"You don't have to punish yourself for anything. I know the _real _you, and I know that it's hard to fight this false side but if you let me, I will help you get through this because that's what I'm here for. You don't have to be alone anymore."

Emma presses her lips to his and their tears mingle as they touch each other's cheeks. Neither of them notice anymore that Emma is still half naked and that there is a butcher's knife lying in the middle of the room. They are both grateful for each other.

"I love you, Swan," Killian whispers in Emma's ear as they embrace each other. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Emma smiles and touches her forehead to his. "I love you, too, Killian."

The frozen wind howls outside but she is sure her sickness has faded.


End file.
